


VIVAMUS MORIEDUM EST

by Luna_Hart



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adorable Clint Barton, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, soulbond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 06:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18565786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: 'Let us live, since we must die.'Sometimes, if the bond between two people is strong enough, things like distance or time prove no obstacle. If the bond is strong enough, they will always find each other. In this life or the next. Again and again. Until they get it right.





	VIVAMUS MORIEDUM EST

 

  
NORTHERN BRITAIN, 2ND CENTURY AD

  
The soldier shoved his way through the fray, water churning around his knees. His hair stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat and blood. The river hampered his movements, as did the bodies that floated listlessly around him.

A flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye and he acted on instinct, muscle memory taking over for a mind fogged with fatigue. Metal met metal with a harsh clang and his shoulders shook with the effort it took to shove the attacking barbarian aside. He blocked the man’s sword arm before burying his blade deep into his opponent’s belly.

They were losing. They were losing very badly. The scarlet clad bodies of his fellow Romans that lay scattered about the river and it’s surrounding banks vastly outnumbered the leather and blue-painted bodies of their enemy. The Picti just kept coming, pouring out of the forest like a rain. They’d been outnumbered from the beginning, an ambush their superiors had sent them walking straight into.

They had to fall back, rendezvous with the other Legions and regroup. He spun, catching sight of his Commander as the big blonde man dispatched his attacker with an easy flick of his sword. They caught eyes across the river. He tried to convey silently that this wasn’t where they should make their last stand. They weren’t going to die here today.

The blonde man nodded, understanding. He took a step in the soldier’s direction and then his leg buckled. He fell to his knee with a cry, the feathered shaft of an arrow protruding from the thick muscle just above the back of his knee.

The soldier began to make his way towards the blonde and then suddenly he was running, water splashing high in his desperation. He could only watch, the cry of warning tearing from his lips too late for the blonde man to do anything more than turn his head.

He could only watch, wide-eyed and helpless, as the sword made its downwards swing. The weapon bit into the top of his Commander’s shoulder, hacking deep. By the scarlet spray that burst from his fellow soldier’s neck, he knew the sword had cut one of the great veins.

Then he was there, taking the scruffy man down with a brutal backhanded slash. He didn’t bother watching the man fall, spinning just in time to catch the Commander as he fell. His fingers scrabbled uselessly at the man’s neck, helpless to stop the bright red flow.

He could feel the moment the man’s soul left his body. A light flickered and then faded from his blue eyes as they turned glassy and staring.

The soldier’s vision blurred and steadied as he channeled the pain of losing the man he’d called brother for the last ten years into a rage. That rage shoved an extra push of endurance into his muscles, focusing his vision. He laid his Commander gently into the river, sparing only a moment to close his eyes.

He leapt to his feet, clutching his fallen brother’s sword in his other hand as he scanned the riverbanks. The enemy seemed to have disappeared back into the forest like they never existed, leaving behind only the dead.

All for one.

Movement flickered to one side and he whirled towards it. In the dying light, he could just make out the man crouching low on the edge of the river, a bow in his hands and an arrow on the string. He didn’t really see the man behind the weapon. The only thing he saw was the fletching on the arrows that poked out of the sack on the man’s hips. Fletching that matched the arrow buried in the back of his Commander’s leg.

Rage blocked out everything else in a dark sheen and he charged, lips twisting into a vicious snarl. Pain drove deep into his left shoulder, fingers instantly going numb and losing his sword. A slender shaft of wood tipped with mottled feathers protruded from the joint. It barely slowed him. He didn’t even see the man redraw. Just another breath and then pain blossomed up his right leg. This time he couldn’t stop himself from falling.

His head cracked against something hard hidden under the river’s surface and everything smashed to black.

 

The soldier woke slowly, vision blurring. He blinked, struggling to focus. His head was pounding painfully, his shoulder and leg throbbing a dull ache. He was lying on his back in the dirt, a fire flickering beside him.

The first thing he noticed as awareness slowly flooded back was that his armour was missing and his wounds had been dressed by what looked like strips torn from his own tunic. The second thing he noticed was that his hands were bound in front of him by rough rope.

The third thing he noticed was the archer sitting on the other side of the fire, watching him.

He scrambled up and back, ignoring the pain until he was sitting upright and his back hit something solid. A quick glance behind him revealed that his back was pressed up agains damp rock. They were in a cave.

His eyes flicked back to the man on the other side of the fire, struggling to control his breathing. He couldn’t afford to panic. He had to figure out a way to escape. He knew these people took slaves and he would die before he let himself be taken to that fate.

The archer on the other side of the fire did nothing, just looked at him with piercingly blue eyes that seemed to stare to the very core. After a moment, like he had decided that the soldier wasn’t a threat, he went back to whatever he was cooking in the small pot that sat by the fire.

He took the moment to observe the man. He would guess they were of an age but it was difficult to tell. His hair was long and braided, what could be either dark blonde or light brown in colour. He was shirtless, wearing leather pants and soft-looking boots.

Like most of his kind, he was covered with a blue paint. Swirling designs adorned his chest and back, winding around his arms in swirling designs. More was smeared across his face and head. Three streaks bisected his eye like claw marks, making the blue of his eyes all the more vibrant. A belt hung low on his hip, with a knife and small pouch hanging beside him. His bow lay nearby, unstrung with the arrow sack sitting beside it.

“What are you going to do with me?” he asked hoarsely.

The man’s hands paused in whatever task he was doing but he started up again a moment later, not even sparing a glance towards the other side of the fire. “Well?” he pressed, testing his bonds only to find them knotted tight. “You must have kept me alive for a reason. And if you are thinking of keeping or selling me, think again. I have never been good at taking orders.”

Still no response.

“Hey!” he roared, all the rage and pain still bubbling under the surface. Now the man looked up, firelight flickering in those bright blue eyes. His whole body went tense, like a bird of prey perched and ready for the kill. “Nothing to say?” he spat.

The Picti spoke, a guttural muttering of what the darker haired man could only guess were words rolling smoothly from his tongue. He didn’t even bother holding back the scoff. “Of course. I do not know why I expected anything else,” he sneered nastily. “Barbaric language to match a barbaric people—.”

“I speak.”

Whatever else he was going to say died on his tongue and he just stared. The blue-eyed man stared back. “I speak,” he said again, words rough and accent thick but understandable nonetheless.

“So what do you want with me?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Owe blood,” the man replied stiltedly.

 _“I_ owe,” he snarled in disbelief, shoving down the thrum of panic that came with the archer’s words. Did these people perform human sacrifices? “You are the one who killed my brothers, my Commander. You have murdered entire Legions in cold blood—.”

“ _You_ kill,” the painted man interrupted sharply, pointing a wicked sharp-looking knife in the soldier’s general direction. “You come. Kill. Take. Not yours. Owe blood.”

He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He’d always been a little uneasy when they had been ordered so deep into the North. They had no Roman settlements out this far, no one to protect and no one to avenge but the dead. The archer stared at him, seeming to take note of his hesitation before bending back to his task.

The night wore on. The soldier watched, or rather glared, as the archer ate whatever food he’d been making and then laid out what the dark haired man knew was a legionnaire issued sleeping mat. His hands clenched, blunt nails biting into his palms as he glared across the fire at the blonde man.

Then the archer was in front of him and the soldier had time to do nothing more than flinch back before hands were on his ankles. He tried to kick out but the wound to his thigh made one leg weaker and the archer easily avoided it.

A sharp smack to that very wound had his vision whiting out around the edges. In that moment of weakness, he found himself flipped onto his stomach, arms pinned underneath himself. His face was mashed into the damp earth as his legs were forced to bend at the knee. His wounded thigh screamed as his legs were bent further. Something tugged at his wrists, pulling them down towards his crotch.

After no small amount of struggling and snarling, the hands suddenly released him. He thrashed but found his ankles had been bound, attached to his wrists by a length of rope between his legs. He was effectively hobbled.

To further the embarrassment, the archer had the audacity to pat him on the head. He snarled and snapped, knowing he came nowhere close to catching the archer’s fingers. A soft snicker above him confirmed it.

He could hear soft footfalls trailing away from him. He turned his head over, spitting dirt, to see the archer curling up in the bedroll on the other side of the fire. The man caught his eye, sending him a wicked smirk before closing his eyes and effectively seeming to go to sleep.

 

He didn’t sleep. He waited, biding his time until the embers of the dampened fire had died down to a soft amber glow. He watched the slow rise and fall of the archer’s shoulders, confirming that he was in a deep sleep. He wiggled, getting himself onto his side. His wounded shoulder protested the pressure of the ground but he put it out of his mind.

The archer may have stripped him of most of his weapons, but he’d missed one. It took a bit of wiggling, twisting into a position that made his back scream, but he finally managed to get the small knife out of the bottom of his boot.  
The ropes were thick and took a bit for the little knife to wear through them. Finally the last of the fibres around his wrists snapped off. He quietly kicked the ropes from his ankles and rose into a low crouch, weighing his options. The archer was between him and the entrance of the cave. All he had was a small boot knife but it was all he would need.

As quietly as he could, he made his way around the fire and crouched by the archer’s shoulder. He shifted his grip of the knife, eyeing the man’s exposed throat. One quick thrust and it’d all be over. He’d have revenge on the man who caused the death of his Commander and he’d be free to rejoin the Legion.

He’d never had an issue killing. It probably should bother him more than it did but he’d always been that way. In a fight when it was him or them, he chose himself every time. If it was between protecting the men at his side or someone else, he’d choose his brothers every time. It was brutal but so was the world and he’d never hesitated.

Until now.

And as he stared down at this stranger, who was sleeping so peacefully, completely unaware of the kind of danger he was in, he realized he couldn’t do it. A flush of cold shivered down his spine. He couldn’t do it. He shifted his grip again, unable to tear his eyes away from the man’s surprisingly long eyelashes and the way they brushed his cheeks in sleep.

Then those eyelashes fluttered and he was staring into twin seas.

Neither breathed. Neither moved. They existed in that moment for what felt like an eternity, just staring back at each other. Then the archer’s eyes flicked to the knife still held in the soldier’s hand and he lunged.

The archer was fast but the soldier was faster. He was also better trained and now that he had the upper hand, even with his injuries, he was sure as Jupiter going to keep it. They rolled, tumbling over each other, fighting for the knife.

Then suddenly they were in free fall.

They tumbled down the sharp embankment in front of the cave, tumbling over each other. The soldier’s shoulder smacked into something hard, the pain making his head ring. Finally, they slide to a stop at the bottom of the ravine.

Both men lay side by side, panting for breath. The soldier rolled over with a pained grunt, coming almost nose to nose with the archer. Blood dripped across the man’s temple, dirt caked around the wound. The blue paint had been smudged in places, flaking off in others.

There was a question hidden under the pain in the archer’s blue eyes. But whatever he was wanting to ask was lost under the sudden pounding of feet and hooves. The clink of armour, the huff of horses. The cry of a Roman Legionnaire barking out orders.

Panic flooded through the archer’s eyes, his whole body going tense. Once again he was fast but the soldier was faster. It took a moment, the archer was wriggling like a wildcat, but the soldier finally got him pinned, using his superior bodyweight to keep the leaner man pinned.

The hoofbeats were growing closer, causing the archer’s struggles to become more desperate. The soldier was about to call out, to signal to the soldier his position, but something made him stop. Once again, this stranger made the soldier pause. Maybe it was the fear that darkened those blue eyes but that didn’t make sense. He’d never blinked before hauling men off to whatever fate his superiors deemed for them.

He knew exactly what awaited the archer if he took him back to the Legion. It wouldn’t be pleasant. And for some reason, picturing the archer being hauled off in chains turned his stomach. So as those soldiers grew closer, he made an insane decision.

He grabbed the struggling archer and rolled them into the bushes. He just barely managed to re-pin the smaller man. He got one of the man’s flailing arms under his knee, grabbing the other wrist in his hand and slamming it into the dirt. He crushed the breath from the other man as he let his full weight rest on the archer’s chest and clapped a hand over his mouth. He was immediately bit for his troubles, but he just grunted and hung on. He tucked his head down next to the other man’s, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“Shhh.”

The archer froze, blue eyes locking onto his. Anger still burned there, but now it was tinged with something else. Whatever it was, it made the soldier’s gut squirm so he tucked his head low against the archer’s shoulder and lay still.

The ground shook as men and horses alike trotted by. The soldier didn’t even dare to breathe, praying to any god listening that his red tunic wouldn’t give them away. The archer’s breath brushed over the base of his neck as they lay cheek to cheek.

After what felt like an eternity, the last of the procession passed by. The soldier waited until long after the last of the footfalls faded from hearing and then waited some more. Finally, after the archer beneath him started squirming again, he sat up on his haunches.

The archer sat up on his elbows, staring up at him warily. Then slowly, he sat the rest of the way up, closing the distance between them. Carefully, like approaching a skittish animal, the archer reached up towards the soldier’s face.

The soldier tensed but there wasn’t anything aggressive in the other man’s posture. If anything, it felt careful. Almost gentle. He still flinched a little as the man brushed a thumb firmly across his cheek. The archer held his hand up, a playful smirk on his lips as he displayed the blue paint smeared across his thumb.

The soldier’s breath huffed out in something close to a chuckle, breathy and a little giddy feeling. The archer was staring so intently, as if he could stare into the very core of the Roman man.

Then he jerked his chin towards the road.

The soldier frowned, not understanding. The archer did it again, this time accompanying it with a shooing motion of his hands. The soldier’s eyes widened, understanding now what the man was silently saying. A little lopsided smirk tugged at the archer’s lips as he motioned again, this time adding a shove directly to the soldier’s chest.

The soldier stumbled to his feet, looking down the road where the Legion had disappeared down. He extracted himself from the bushes and was out onto the road before he stopped dead. A cold flush trickled down his spine. If he went back now…best case scenario he would be whipped for cowardice, worst he’d be beaten to death for desertion. His Commander wouldn’t be there to counter a punishment to save his hide, not this time.

He whirled around, glancing over his shoulder to where the archer now stood half way up the ravine just…watching him. Like he knew. Even at this distance, the soldier could see the smirk. He could do nothing but watch, frozen as the painted man turned and made his way to the top of the ridge. Once there, he stopped, looking back down at the soldier.

Then he jerked his chin again, this time indicating beside him.

The soldier blinked. The archer’s smirk pulled into a full blown grin as he jerked his chin again before disappearing back towards the cave. The soldier stood, staring up at the empty ridge line for a very long time.  

 

 

BATTLE OF AGINCOURT - NORTHERN FRANCE - 1415

  
Jules leaned forward to stroke a gloved hand down the chainlink armour that wrapped around his mount’s throat. The large beast shifted his weight nervously, as eager as his master to start the charge. His knee bumped into Stéphane as his mount skittered sideways. A barking order cracked down the lines, an immediate reprimand. He reined the stallion in and after a bit of a tug-of-war, the beast finally settled.

He glanced sideways, catching Stéphane’s eyes. Those blue eyes were lacking their usual sparkle of mischief, his mouth held in a grim line. That look told Jules everything he needed to know about what they were about to face. The blonde man always had this intuition before a battle. It was as if he could foretell the outcome before the first arrow was let loose.

The last time Jules had seen that look, he’d almost lost an arm.

He took a deep breath as orders were passed down the line, steadying himself and his mount. Below them sat the English, neat rows of distant specks sparkling in the grey light. He closed his eyes, grounding his breath. In and out. His eyes opened, taking in the battlefield with razor focus. He could feel the energy shift, like a palpable entity rushing down the lines. Horses stamped their hooves, armour clinked as men shifted.

He glanced beside him, watching the big blonde man as he shifted his grip on his reins. The man seemed to sense his gaze and looked over to meet it with a tight-lipped smile.

_“Jusqu’au bout de la route.”_

Then the order to charge and everything was lost in a frenzy of pounding hooves. Jules only had time to focus on the charge and the chaos that followed shortly after.

It was a mess. Horses panicked, churning the damp ground into a slippery mire. They couldn’t even get close to their target. The enemy archers were well protected between the trees and behind rows of sharpened spikes that kept the horses from getting too close.

And all the while, arrows fell like rain from above.

Damn the English and their monstrous war bows. Jules had seen them from afar before. Six foot long with such a heavy draw that the English had waves upon waves of men to spell each other off after merely a few minutes. Arrows that could punch straight through a fully armoured knight and continue on through the man behind him.

He guided his mount with his knees, trying and failing to avoid tramping his fellow soldiers who had since fallen to the mucky ground. He caught sight of Stéphane at the edge of the tree line, only to watch in horror as the man’s mount was shot out from under him. The big man went flying and was promptly lost amongst the sea of hooves and bodies.

He wheeled his stallion around, desperately trying to find a way around the archer’s defences but there was none that he could see. He was headed back towards the clearing when his mount took an arrow to the chest. He felt the impact all the way through the saddle. The horse reared with a shrieking cry. He tried to stay in control, tried to throw himself free but his foot got tangled in his stirrup and he could only hang on as the animal tipped over backwards.

 

He didn’t remember the impact. Next he knew, he was waking up, staring at the tree canopy above him. It was so quiet. Almost peaceful. He wondered if this was what heaven was like, to bask in this numb floaty feeling for eternity. If this was death, it wasn’t so bad.

Then the smell hit him. Blood and sweat and mud and fear clawing past his lips and coating his throat. Then the screaming. The cries of the wounded and the dying grated at his ears. So this wasn’t heaven. No, far from it. This was the complete opposite.

Jules had always hated poetry, especially those of war. The pompous pricks waxed on as if war was a glorious affair and not the dirty, damning hell that it really was. He’d survived his fair share of hell on earth. This war was just the latest one.

It was about then that Jules realized that he couldn’t feel his legs. He glanced down at himself, only to see nothing but the armoured back of his horse. He was pinned underneath the great animal. He let his head fall back with a soft squelch, the mud slipping down the back of his tunic.

He really wished that the man a few feet over would stop screaming. It was horrifying to listen to. The cries of a man who knew he was dying.

Breathing was starting to become difficult, a deep hot pain cracking deep within his chest. Air rasped from his throat in an ugly wet fashion. He coughed, trying to clear the stench that coated his throat, and tasted copper.

He was going to die.

He realized that, pondered it for a moment, and then decided to accept it. It wasn’t like he had much say in the matter. Getting angry about it wouldn’t help anything. Even if by some miracle he got off the field and to a surgeon, it wasn’t like they would be able to do anything to help him. Best case scenario he lived a short, painful life without the use of his lower extremities. Worse case, he died in agony in a tent surrounded by other men who hadn’t figured out they were dead yet.

He had always been indifferent to the idea of death. So many men went to war, crossing themselves and praying to the saints to bring them out the other side. In Jules experience, those were the men who died first. He just hoped Stéphane had managed to get out. By the looks and sounds of the field, he knew that was a slim hope but he clung to it nonetheless as his breath began to gurgle wetly.

But by God if this wasn’t a dismal place to die.

That man screamed again, an undulating wave of sound whimpering out only to screech again with the next breath. Why couldn’t the man just hurry up and die already? Then, as if something heard Jules’ plea, the man stopped. The scream ended midway, interrupted by a soft gurgle and then all was quiet.

He couldn’t help but look over. A hooded figure of a man was crouched by what he guessed was the screaming man’s body. Only the man wasn’t screaming anymore. He didn’t seem to be doing much of anything anymore.

The hooded man had an arrow sac hanging from his hip, a few fletchings sticking out. His bow lay nearby, one of those six foot monsters that had ripped through Jules and his battalion like paper. As the man rose, Jules could see the knife held in his left hand, dripping scarlet into the muddy ground.

So that's how it was. The enemy had won and now they would pick over the bones of his fellow soldiers like vultures scavenging for scrapes. They would take prisoners of the lesser wounded, or they wouldn’t. Maybe they didn’t want to deal with the hassle of prisoners. He wasn’t sure. Not that it mattered either way for him. He would be in the other group. They called them mercy kills. He’d had to do it himself a time or two.

He tried to stay quiet, just to spite the vultures and die on his own time, but he couldn’t stop the cough that ripped wetly from his lungs. It sent burning fire racing through his chest. At the sound the hooded man rose, head whipping around towards him.

Jules didn’t even bother to struggle as the man crossed the mud towards him. It was pointless now. The archer crouched beside him, pushing back his hood to expose short cropped blonde hair and the bluest eyes Jules had ever seen. He stared and the archer stared back. It felt like seeing the sun after a long month of rain. Like watching the sunrise over the sea after a storm.

Like coming home.

Another cough tore from his throat, breaking whatever spell had been cast between the two men. More wetness splattered over his lips and he struggled to breath around it. He was starting to drown in it. The archer raised his knife and Jules tensed, waiting for the fatal blow, for the sharp blade to end it all.

It didn’t happen.

Instead the archer reached down and sliced a strip from his own tunic. Long, graceful fingers wiped the blood from his lips with a gentle touch. Brushed the sweaty hair back from his forehead. Tilted his head up so it was a little easier to breath. Jules heaved a grateful breath but it came out more like a sob as the pain started to wrap around into his spine. Everything hurt. God, it hurt so much. He blinked back tears, staring up into those blue eyes. The colour of a cloudless summer sky.

 _“Y mettre fin,”_ he whispered. _“S’il vous plaît.”_

End it. Please.

The archer stared back, something sad flickering in his eyes. His hand tightened where it was supporting the soldier’s neck, thumb brushing lightly across his cheekbone. Jules shivered, something so achingly familiar in the touch. The archer’s breath hitched and he murmured something that Jules didn’t understand. His grasp on the man’s language was nonexistent at best. Whatever it was, it sounded so very sad.

The hand on his neck shifted to the back of his head, cradling it carefully. The archer bent closer, pressing his forehead against Jules in a way that struck him deep within the chest. Like a vow broken before it even had a chance to be promised. Like a cruel joke. Cold metal kissed his throat, hesitating.

 _“Yeux fermé,”_ the archer murmured.

The grammar was passible and the accent was atrocious and it was so painfully perfect. Like a lullaby sending him to sleep. Jules reached up, closing his fingers around the archer’s wrist. He brushed his thumb along the lacings of the man’s bracer, staring into the man’s eyes as if trying to burn the colour into his memory.

Then he closed his eyes.

 

THE GAMBIA, WEST AFRICA - 1718

  
James stood at attention by the castle gates as he kept a sharp eye on the merchant and his men as they filed in through the gates. They weren’t expecting any trouble today but something had his hackles up nonetheless. The merchant seemed trustworthy enough. His commander had vouched for the man, who was apparently in the market for slaves. It was a side of the job turned James’ stomach.

He watched as his commander greeted the merchant with a firm handshake and the usual pleasantries. He let his gaze roam over the rest of the group, looking for threats. His eyes slid easily over most of them before locking onto one particular man lounging casually against the side of a cart a few paces behind the merchant.

There was something about this one, something that had the hairs on the back of James’ neck standing up. As if sensing his stare, the man turned. Eyes the colour of the sea locked onto his.

The man winked.

Before James had a chance to react, his commander was inviting the merchant for a tour. The merchant barked out orders to the rest of his men. Without prompting, James crossed the distance to follow behind his commander as the man led the merchant deeper into the compound.

Someone fell into step beside him and he glanced over to see the same blue-eyed man by his shoulder, mirroring James’ own position as they followed behind their superiors. They kept a respectable silence. James kept one ear listening to the commander drone on about this and that but his other was trained on the man beside him. He wasn’t sure what made him so curious, so wary of the other man.

He snuck the occasional glance over at him. The man looked fit, half a head shorter than James himself and well muscled. His curling blonde hair hung just past his ears. There was a wicked scar bisecting his eye, another wrapping around his jaw. The last time James glanced over, he saw crinkling smile lines around the man’s eye. Like the man knew he was looking.

They were nearing the middle of the compound when James’ reservations turned out to me not so unfounded. His commander had stopped, explaining something or other, and turned right into the barrel of the merchant’s pistol. James’ hand had barely touched the hilt of his sword before cold metal pressed against his temple.

He glared at the blue-eyed man who clucked his tongue condescendingly, eyes sparkling with mischief. With his hand now extended, James could see the bubbled shape on the man’s inner wrist where a rough T shape had been branded into his skin.

The man’s smirk only grew as he saw the trajectory of James’ gaze. James just narrowed his eyes. The merchant, who had since introduced himself as Captain Courson, was talking with the commander, waxing on about how his men had taken control of the armoury and that as long as everyone behaved, no one would get hurt.

“Hear that?” the man holding a gun to his head murmured softly, his voice a deep rumbling timber. “Would hate to ruin that pretty face of yours so no bright ideas.” James gritted his teeth against an angry retort. He watched as the rest of the merchant—no, captain’s men marched his own soldiers passed them in shackles.

Fucking pirates.

The blonde man rounded in front of him, pistol cocked as he slapped James’ hand away from the hilt of his sword. James stiffened, hands itching to smash across the bastard’s smug face. “Ah ah ah,” the man chastised, tapping the barrel of his pistol against James’ cheek. “Behave, remember?” he teased, a dangerous glint in his eye.

Cold metal clamped down around his wrists, the chain linking the cuffs together clinking ominously. “Too tight?” the man asked, innocent tone ruined by a wicked smirk.

James once again said nothing, refusing to give the man the satisfaction. With a soft scrapping sound, the man tugged James’ sword free from its sheath. He caressed the weapon with his eyes, whistling appreciatively.

With a sudden flick of his wrist, he sent the point whipping towards James’ eye. It was so fast the taller man didn’t even have time to react before a line of fire traced across his cheekbone. He hissed sharply, flinching back. The blonde man just chuckled darkly, spinning the sword in a lazy circle. His eyes raked James up and down, bold and predatory.

“Pretty,” the man murmured.

“Barton!” The blonde man glanced over his shoulder to where his captain and James’ commander still stood. The latter was now in shackles, the former with a stern yet indulgent look in his eye. “Stop playing with your food and put him with the others,” the captain ordered.

“Aye Captain,” the man drawled.

He swept his arm out in a mocking bow, eyes sharp and not leaving James’ face for a second. James crossed the room on stiff legs. He watched as Barton passed his sword to the captain with a flourish, his jaw aching from how tightly he was grinding his teeth.

The rest of the forced march went by in silence as the he was taken down into the bowels of the fort, where the cells were located. He was shoved past the cells containing the rest of the men, down to the back where a single cell sat tucked away in a corner.

“I appreciate you making this easy for me,” the blonde man drawled before roughly shoving James into the cell. He stumbled, just barely keeping his footing. He whirled, lunging at the pirate but he was too late. The cell door slammed shut with a clang, the lock clicking into place just as he hit the bars.

“Easy to steal with a gun to a man’s head,” James snarled.

The man’s eyes snapped sharply up to meet his, clearly looking affronted. “I will have you know that I am an excellent thief,” the man protested, like it was something to be proud about as opposed to making him a scourge on good men and women who worked hard for an honest living.

“That brand on your wrist would say otherwise,” he retorted sharply.

As opposed to getting angry, the man just grimaced. It was a surprising reaction and one James hadn’t really really expected. There was a story there but whatever flicker he saw was masked.

Then, quick as a snake, the man’s hand lashed out through the bars and snatched the chain that linked James’ shackles together. He was yanked forward roughly, the metal edges of the cuffs biting deep into his wrists as he slammed into the cell door. Barton surged forward, getting up in his face. The man’s bicep swelled with the effort of keeping James’ pinned against the bars. A wicked smirk tugged at his lips as he reached up with his other hand.

James threw himself backwards but Barton only yanked him forward again. A heavy boot exchanged itself for the hand on the chain, dragging his hands down. His chin smashed into the door’s crossbar, teeth clacking together painfully. Barton’s now free hand wrapped itself around the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair.

James thrashed, trying to gain leverage to throw the man off but there was too much weight on his wrists and the hand in his hair was pressing his chin into the bar hard enough for the metal to grind against bone. He couldn’t shake the hold. He was completely vulnerable. And he’d seen the wicked looking knife that hung from the pirate’s belt. A thrum of panic settled like an icy vice around his ribs.

So it threw him when the man reached up and brushed his thumb across his cheekbone with a gentle steady pressure. James hissed, the pirate’s touch caressing just below the cut the man himself inflicted.

The blonde man’s eyes snapped up, something echoing behind those blue circles. That smirk was back, this time soft and a little lopsided. Nothing like his aggressive wolfish grin from before. His hand drew back, blood smeared across his thumb.

The pressure disappeared from his wrists, as did the hand in his hair. Barton stepped away, a swagger in his step as he backed away from James’ cell. “You know,” he drawled, reaching behind his back and pulling out James’ own knife. He’d never even felt the man take it. “I think I’ll keep this. As a souvenir of our time together.”

Fucking pirates.

“Barton!” James cried. The man stopped at the corner, glancing back over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. James gritted his teeth, hands wrapping around the cell bars. “I’m going to remember your name,” he promised, putting as much venom behind the words as he could even if something deep at the core of himself was shaking like a leaf. The other man grinned, baring teeth.

“I’d expect nothing less.”

 

 

THE WHIP & FIDDLE — LONDON, ENGLAND — 1943

  
“Whiskey, neat,” he said with a tired sigh as he slide into a barstool in the crowded pub. The energy was loud and raucous, the last night of freedom before they all got shipped back over to hell. The barman slide his glass neatly into his hand, which he promptly downed in one and slide it back. “Another,” he rasped, running a hand down his face.

“Rough night?”

She was pretty, if you liked buxom blondes with too much rouge. “The world’s at war. Every night is rough,” he huffed bitterly. He immediately winced at his own tone, seeing her smile falter around the edges. It wasn’t fair to her. He was on the front lines so people like her could be sheltered from the horrors. And besides, he had a reputation to uphold. “But who am I to subject a lady to such ugly talk,” he amended, swivelling on the seat to give her his full attention. He smirked, putting enough heat in his gaze to make the girl’s cheeks flush. “Now tell me, what’s a doll like you doing in a place like this?”

He chatted her up. He asked about her life and her job and her cat like he cared and feeling like a fraud the entire time before asking her to dance. She squealed at the prospect, cheeks flushed rosy from too many gin fizzes and sidecars. He prided himself on his ability and managed to keep her impressed long enough for another soldier to cut in. He put up enough of a fight to sell it, to make her feel special, before begrudgingly but graciously handing her off and making his way back to the bar.

He was leaning on his elbows, raking a restless hand through his hair when a rocks glass bumped up against his fingers. He stared down at the two fingers of whiskey, which was joined momentarily by another glass. This one had a hand wrapped around it, fingers long and graceful.

He glanced up into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.

Those eyes were attached to a man, a soldier in army fatigues that matched his own, with short cropped blonde hair and a lopsided smirk. “You take it neat, right?” the man said, voice sounding like smooth whiskey itself.

“Yeah, thanks,” he said, forcing himself not to stare.

“Don’t mention it,” the man replied, taking a sip from his own glass. “Men like us have to stick together, right?”

 _He knows,_ was the first thought that flickered through his brain, accompanied by a cold flush of panic because this man couldn’t know. Not that. No one could know that. And then the first part of what the man said filtered through. Men like _us_.

He couldn’t possibly mean….

“Francis Barker, just transferred over to the 107th,” the man said, offering his hand.

Oh, that’s what he meant. That’s good, safer.

“James Barnes, also of the 107th,” he replied, shaking the man’s hand. His fingers were oddly calloused, but warm. The grip lingered for a beat too long and Bucky refused to read into it further.

“Oh I know who you are,” Francis smirked, leaning his hip against the bar. “Your reputation precedes you, Sergeant. I look forward to serving with you.”

“That’s quite the commendation,” Bucky drawled in reply. “I’ll try and live up to it.”

They burned their way through enough whiskey to put a serious dent in the Fiddle’s stores, until everything was fuzzy around the edges and Bucky was doubled over howling at the stupidest pun he’d ever heard.

“Christ, that was awful,” he gasped, wiping tears from his eyes as he looked up to a cheeky grin and a shameless shrug as Francis poured him another two fingers. The barman had long since just left them the bottle. Bucky was still chuckling as a few familiar piano notes wafted through from the other room and the whole pub broke out into song.

 _There is a tavern in the town, in the town_  
_And there my true love sits him down, sits him down,_  
_And drinks his wine as merry as can be,_  
_And never, never thinks of me._

Bucky’s good mood had vanished by the second word of the song, turning sour and bitter. He swallowed thickly, staring down at the hand he had wrapped around his glass and the way it was definitely not starting to shake.

 _Fare thee well, for I must leave thee,_  
_Do not let this parting grieve thee,_  
_And remember that the best of friends_  
_Must part, must part_

God, he hated that song. The men loved to sing it and he would never deny them such a simple pleasure in a world filled with so much horror. It was the newest favourite with a catchy melody but for Bucky it only spoke of the things he could lose. Of the things he could never have. Francis’ furrowed brow with a question and suddenly the pub felt very claustrophobic and he had to get out. He had to get out right now.

“I need a smoke,” he grunted, shoving himself away from the bar and the blonde man whose hands Bucky had definitely not been admiring. He stumbled out into the street, fingers scrambling at his pocket for the thin carton of Lucky Strike.

He ducked into the side alley, hiding in the shadows. The rough brick wall of the pub was a solid weight against his back, like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He popped a smoke between his lips, struggling with his zippo which seemed determined not to like. His fingers were starting to shake around the slender metal lighter.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

A soft _shnick_ echoed down the alley and a zippo was held out in front of his face, its soft flame flickering in the low light. Bucky ducked his head a little to light up. He leaned back against the wall, the tip of the smoke glowing cherry. He took a deep breath, relishing in the way the smoke curled in his lungs and calmed the shaky feeling.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly.

Francis just tucked the lighter away, watching him like he knew exactly what was going through his head. Like he knew him. “Those things can’t be good for yah,” he drawled.

Bucky chuckled, the smoke making his throat raspy. “Lotta things aren’t good for me,” he retorted, taking another long drag. “Next to the bullets, the bombs, and the Nazis, dying because of my Luckys would be a luxury.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Francis said softly, something painful reflecting in his bright eyes. They almost looked luminous in the shadows and Bucky had to stop himself from drowning in them.

“Like what?” he retorted hotly.

“Like you’re already dead.”

Bucky closed his mouth with a snap. He stared down at the cobblestones, rolling the smoke between his fingers in a nervous twitch.

“But I am,” he confessed.

He dragged his eyes off his boots and up to those blue eyes that looked so gentle and so understanding and it hurt so much to see because Bucky didn’t want gentle. He wanted it to hurt.

“We all are,” he continued stiffly. “We just haven’t realized it yet.”

The blonde man huffed a breath, a bitter smile tugging at his lips as he tucked his hands into his pockets. “That’s pretty dark, Sergeant,” he drawled.

“Bucky,” he corrected before he could stop himself.

Something shifted in Francis’ eyes, an electricity that had something hot curling deep within Bucky’s chest. The alley suddenly felt so very small, mere feet separating him from the blonde soldier, which got decidedly smaller as the shorter man took a step closer.

A blast of sound exploded into the street had Bucky flinching back against the wall. The sounds of people tumbling through the pub doors echoed down the alley, drunken voices and laughter ricocheting off the bricks. Before the doors slammed shut again, the last few verses of that damn song wafted out into the air.

 _Put tombstones at my head and feet, head and feet_  
_And on my breast you may carve a turtle dove,_  
_To signify I died of love._

God, he really hated that song.

“What?” he said intelligently, realizing with a start that the blonde man had asked him a question. That soft, teasing smirk was back on the blonde man’s face. It was the one that had crawled deep in Bucky’s heart about an hour back, inside the bar when he was stealing glances when he knew the other man couldn’t see.

“I said,” the man repeated slowly. “Do you have anyone waiting for you back home?”

“No,” Bucky replied with a chuckled breath, flicking ash from the end of his forgotten cigarette and watching it drift down to his boots.

“That’s a shame,” Francis murmured softly, taking a slow step forward. “No little lady waiting on the home front?” Bucky shook his head, swallowing thickly as Francis took another step. It was barely a foot that separated them now.

“No fella?”

The breath froze in Bucky’s chest. He might have actually forgotten how lungs worked. His eyes snapped up, drowning in blue. “What did you just fuckin’ say?” he breathed, trying to sound angry but failing miserably. He couldn’t dare allow himself to hope. Hope was how you got your heart broken. Or your neck.

The blonde man took one last step, bringing the two of them nearly chest to chest. Fingers brushed against his as the smoke was plucked from Bucky’s fingers. He watched, mesmerized as Francis brought the cigarette to his lips and breathed in slow. He turned his head as he exhaled, eyes never leaving Bucky’s.

The soldier licked his lips slow and Bucky felt his eyes tracing the movement before he caught himself. He tore his eyes away, knuckles cracking as he clenched his hands tight. “It’s alright,” Francis murmured, dragging Bucky’s gaze back to him with his words alone.

A hand brushed across his cheek, cigarette having since disappeared. The fingers curled against the short hair at the back of his neck and Bucky couldn’t stop himself leaning into the touch like a drowning man. His hands scrabbled at the front of Francis’ uniform, fisting themselves in the rough fabric as he smashed his lips against the shorter man’s. The kiss was desperate and rushed and so very perfect.

“Easy, soldier,” Francis chuckled against his lips.

Bucky’s breath shuddered and hitched. His whole body was trembling and he couldn’t make it stop. He wanted this. He’d wanted this for so long and had tried to convince himself otherwise. Tried to ignored his twisted desires because he knew it was wrong. He’d been told it was wrong every Sunday for his entire childhood but now it was standing right in front of him with a hand in his hair and a wicked smirk and it was just so perfect.

“Hey,” the blonde man murmured, ducking his head to catch Bucky’s eye. “What’s going on behind those baby blues, hmm?” Bucky just shook his head, unable to put all the twisted spiky feeling that were lodged up under his ribs into words. “God, you’re gorgeous,” the man murmured, leaning forward to press a kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth.

“Don’t,” Bucky stuttered as the man traced his lips along his jawline and down the side of his neck. “You can’t…you can’t say things like that.”

“Not even if it’s true?” the man asked cheekily, pressing his lips against the corner of his jaw, just under his ear. A shiver ran through Bucky’s entire body, threatening to shake him into pieces. “Because you are,” Francis continued, tracing back along Bucky’s jaw. “So. Fucking. Gorgeous.” Each word was emphasized by a kiss, the last pressing gentle against Bucky’s lips.

A hand traced down his ribs, brushing low to tug gently at his belt and prompting Bucky to gasp against the blonde’s sinfully skilled lips. “We can’t…we’re gonna—,” he tried but then lips were pressing firmly against him, effectively silencing him.

“We’re not gonna get caught,” Francis promised, rasping his teeth lightly against Bucky’s bottom lip. “Don’t worry, doll,” he whispered roughly, cupping the side of Bucky’s face in his palm as he brushed his thumb gently across the taller man’s cheekbone. “I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

Bucky moaned but it came out more like a whimper, sounding far too broken. He felt Francis freeze at the sound, pulling away just enough to give Bucky a bit of breathing room.

“Tell me to stop,” the man stated, nothing teasing in his tone anymore. He braced one hand on the wall beside Bucky’s head and held his gaze like he was trying to take him apart piece by piece. “Tell me to stop and I’ll walk away and never speak to you again.”

“Don’t,” Bucky gasped, hand tightening in the front of the man’s jacket. He swallowed thickly, wrenching back some semblance of self control. “Don’t,” he repeated, quieter and more confident because if he was going to die tomorrow, he sure as hell was going to make this night one to remember. “Don’t stop.”

A slow smile pulled at Francis’ lips, blue eyes seeming to sparkle in the shadows. “I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he promised.

 

Five months later and Bucky was into his second week of being a prisoner of war. The latest battle had ended in disaster for the 107th and had ended with Bucky and about forty other men being marched through the forest at gunpoint for four days straight.

Now they were being marched towards a large military compound. Tall fences encircled the absolutely massive and incredibly ominous grey building. Bucky shared a quick look with Dugan who was walking next to him. The man just grimaced, which told the smaller man all he needed to know.

As they neared the gates, a horrific sight greeted them. Sprawled in huge piles along the side of the road leaded into the compound, tossed aside like discarded dolls, were bodies. Dozens of them, some in civilian garb, many in army green. As they neared, men in uniforms guarded other prisoners as they dragged more bodies out of the back of trucks and added them onto the already substantial piles.

Bucky’s heart leapt into his throat as he caught sight of one particular body sprawled in the back of the truck, head and arms hanging limply off the tailgate. It was a man, dressed in dirty green fatigues with a set of dog tags swinging around his neck. Bruises were scattered across his face, disappearing up into a dirty blonde hairline.

Bright blue eyes staring blankly ahead, glassy and unseeing.

Bucky earned a busted lip, a cracked tooth, and a rifle butt to the temple for the fight he kicked up when they dragged the blonde man from the truck and tossed him unceremoniously atop one of the piles.

Afterwards, as they were marched through the gates, he could feel Dugan giving him a long look. He ignored it. He ignored the blood that trickled down his face and chin. He ignored the barking orders shouted in a language he barely understood. He ignored everything but the black rage that burned under his skin as he promised to make the them pay.

He’d make them all pay.

The next time he heard _that_ song, he was standing in the same bar, watching Peggy Carter shut him down in favour for a skinny kid from Brooklyn who wasn’t so skinny anymore and was in fact the hope of the fucking nation.

He swallowed down the bitterness that clawed at his throat as he watched his best friend walk away with the girl, leaving him alone at the bar with nothing but two fingers of whiskey and the bittersweet memory of a pair of bright blue eyes.

 

 

AVENGERS TOWER — NEW YORK CITY — 2014

  
It had been two months since the helicarriers had crashed into the Potomac. Six weeks since Steve had confronted him in the back alley behind the Smithsonian after he’d visited the Captain America exhibit. Five and a half weeks since he’d been holed up in a house that belonged to the man with the metal wings trying to struggle through the snarled mess that was his own head.

Now, in a hoody and baseball cap, he was being guided gently through the glass doors of an absolutely massive building. Steve had explained that it was owned by Stark’s son and that the tower was populated by a kind of modern version of the Howling Commandoes save for that the world wasn’t at war anymore, half of the people here had strange powers and one was an actual Norse god. So yeah, exactly like the Howling Commandoes.

“Welcome back, Captain Rogers,” a disembodied voice said in a pleasant British accent floated through the lobby as soon as they stepped foot into it. James flinched, heading whipping around as he searched for the source.

Steve turned to him, an easy smile on his lips that didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes still looked so sad. They had for weeks. Like eating your favourite food from childhood and realizing it didn’t taste like you remembered. Like a disappointment. “Don’t worry,” the man soothed. “That’s just Jarvis. He’s…uhh. He runs the house.”

“An accurate explanation, sir,” the voice said again. “Welcome to the Avenger’s Tower, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Thanks?” he said hesitantly, still staring warily at the ceiling.

“You’ll get used to him,” Steve promised with a chuckle, heading across the empty lobby towards the elevators. The blonde had been very careful not to touch him, not since that one morning where he’d clapped a hand on James’ shoulder and got a torn rotator cuff for his troubles. “Whose in tonight, Jarvis?” Steve asked as the elevator doors opened without Steve doing anything.

“I’m afraid only Agent Barton is in residence at the moment, Captain. Sir is at a gala event but has been advised of our newest houseguest,” the voice explained as they stepped into the elevator. Once again the doors closed and the floor beneath James’ boots began to vibrate without Steve pushing anything.

“Communal floor first please, Jarvis,” Steve said before turning to James. “I’m out of coffee,” he explained, something mischievous flickering there. “If the last few weeks are any indicator, I’d better stock up.”

It was a weak attempt but James gave Steve a lopsided smirk just to see how that simple gesture made the other man’s whole face light up. God, the man was so ernest. It wasn’t even that James needed the caffeine. It didn’t really do anything, his metabolism apparently running hotter these days from whatever shit those HYDRA assholes had pumped into him. It was more like going through the motions, building routines. The illusion of normality. Echoes of who he had been.

The doors opened onto the most lavish living area James had ever seen. Plush couches large enough to seat a quarter of Brooklyn lay out in a sunken space next to the massive floor to ceiling windows. Staircases zigzagged up to upper levels and lofts. A fully stocked bar equipped with a dizzying amount of alcohol lay along the back wall, black bar top gleaming in the warm glow of the city outside.

The kitchen sprawled out along the entire right wall, fully stocked with every gadget imaginable. It was mostly in shadow, the overhead hanging bulbs glowing a soft amber and illuminating the sole occupant sitting at the breakfast counter.

James had to do a double take to realize the bulky shape sitting hunched over the counter was in fact a human. It was a man, if the size of those shoulders was any indication. Bare feet curled around the stool’s crossbar. He wore baggy grey sweatpants and a tight purple shirt that wrapped tight around an impressive set of biceps. The man’s bare arms were scattered with white adhesive bandages and his forehead was pillowed on his forearms. Spiky blonde hair stood up in every direction.

“Hey Clint,” Steve said as he made his way towards the kitchen, letting James follow behind. A rough muffled grunt was the only indication that the man was in fact alive. James kept his distance, hugging to the wall as Steve crossed into the kitchen and started opening cupboards. “Where’s the coffee?” the blonde asked, rummaging past an impressive amount of tea boxes.

The hunched figure, Clint, grunted again. Slowly, with painful exaggeration, he lifted an arm and pointed down towards his own head. “You drank _all_ the coffee?” Steve sigh, sounding resigned, unsurprised, and almost slightly impressed all at the same time.

“I spent the last sixty-two hours chained in a basement in Sibiu, ran barefoot through the majority of Romania, and then suffered through a three hour debrief because Hill’s a tyrant with a lump of vibranium for a heart,” the man muttered, voice muffled into the countertop. “I deserve all the coffee. And my kitchen was out of coffee. Because I already drank all the coffee.”

Steve just chuckled, shaking his head. Something nervous flickered across his face as he shifted his weight. His nervous energy in turn made James nervous and he tensed, prepared for whatever threat might come. “Clint Barton, meet Bucky Barnes,” Steve said, eyes flicking between the two men. “He’s, ah, gonna be staying here for a while.”

Now one would expect that the name of the only Howling Commander to give his life in service of his country, best friend of Captain America in the 1940s, introduced as basically a new roommate would prompt some sort of reaction. As it was, this Barton only grunted again and raised his hand in a weak sort of wave. James raised an eyebrow. Steve just snorted, clapping a hand on the man’s shoulder as he passed by. “Get some sleep, Barton,” he said with a chuckle.

“I am,” came the garbled reply.

“In a real bed,” Steve called over his shoulder, gesturing to James as he headed back towards the elevators. Something that could have been words but came out as more of a groan was the only response. James glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the blonde man flap a hand in their general direction before letting it slap back down on the countertop.

“So what can that guy do?” James asked curiously as the elevator doors closed. He wasn’t holding his breath. The man looked like a train wreck. Maybe the guys ability was to be able to drink more caffeine that should be humanly possible.

“He’s one of the most dangerous men I’ve ever met.”

“The hell he is!”

Steve just chuckled and didn’t elaborate further.

 

  
An alarm blared through the air, startling James from the restless sleep he had finally fallen into. He’d gotten better at sleeping on actual beds of the last few weeks, his body adjusting to the expensive softness of the mattress. But this bed…this bed was just excessive. He could fit four of himself in it. The whole tower was far too lavish for him to feel comfortable here. Steve had an entire fucking floor to himself. There was even a full gym.

He was on his feet, heart hammering in his heart in an instant. He wrenched the bedroom door open onto to come face to face with Steve, gloved fist raised and ready to knock. James flinched back, the plates in his left arm shifting with an ominous whir. “Sorry,” the blonde breathed. James tried not to flinch again. Steve was always sorry these days. “There’s a situation,” he explained and that’s when James realized the man was in full gear. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

“It’s fine, I get it,” James said on reflex. “Go, I’ll be fine,” he added, hating the way the taller man looked so guilty.

“Okay,” the man breathed, eyes going far away as clearly began listening to someone through his comms. “Jarvis is always here if you need anything. I don’t know when I’ll be back but Sam’s number is on the fridge and—.”

“Stevie,” James huffed, interrupting the man’s mother-henning sternly.

“Right. Sorry. Okay. Yeah,” Steve breathed yet he still hesitated. “Can..Can I…?” He asked, hand hovering in middle space between the two of them. God, he was so fucking ernest. James couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“Come here, yah punk,” he muttered, pulling the bigger man into his arms. He held on tight, even as the hand Steve had wrapped around the top of his left shoulder made his skin crawl.

“Jerk,” the blonde muttered damply, the endearment stabbing like ice up under Jams’ ribs. He knew Steve meant well but damn if he didn’t feel so very alone, even wrapped up in his best friend’s arms.

He didn’t bother trying to go back to sleep after Steve left. Instead he dragged a hoody over his head, one of Steve’s so the sleeves hung just a little long, hiding most of his left hand. Just the tips of his fingers poked out past the cuff. It still threw him for a loop how big Steve had gotten.

He wandered into the kitchen, poking through cupboards and the fridge. He startled a little as a soft cough sounded from somewhere above him. “If I may, sir?” Jarvis said gently. James grimaced. That was gonna take some getting used to. “The coffee order has since been delivered to the communal area downstairs.”

“What time is it?” he asked in surprise.

“Five forty-two.”

“Anyone else down there?”

“Only Agent Barton, sir.”

“Still?” he asked in surprise.

“Still,” the voice confirmed dryly. “I believe he fell asleep at the counter.”

James considered it, chewing on his bottom lip. Barton hadn’t seemed like much of a threat earlier. If anything, he found himself a little curious about the human mess that Steve claimed to be so very dangerous. “Okay,” he said slowly. “How do I…” In answer, the elevator doors opened by themselves. “Huh,” was all James could say to that. “So, what exactly are you?” he asked curiously as he stepped into the elevator.

“I am a multifunctional, highly advanced user interface program created by Mr. Stark.”

“You’re a computer program,” James stated.

“An oversimplification but not incorrect.”

“Huh,” James said again as the elevator doors opened and he stepped cautiously out onto the communal floor. He made his way quietly towards the kitchen, to where the blonde man was still slumped over the counter, now snoring softly.

He thought about waking him but the man had seemed so tired that he decided not to. Instead he made his way into the kitchen and stared for a whole minute at the terrifyingly complicated machine that he assumed would produce coffee but also may or may not explode if handled incorrectly.

“If I may, Sergeant?” Jarvis said hesitantly, voice soft so not to disturb the sleeping man behind them and took the time to walk Jame through the steps of filling the machine with water, pouring the coffee grinds in, etc.

The pot was almost half full by the time Barton stirred with a soft groan. James glanced over his shoulder, seeing the man sitting slightly more upright with his head buried in his hands. “Morning,” he said softly, not wanting to startle the man. Fingers parted slightly, revealing hints of two eyes and the bridge of a nose covered with a bright purple polkadot bandaid.

“Barnes, right?” the man asked, words muffled into his palms. James nodded. “Life is fucking weird, man,” Barton exclaimed around a yawn. “A decorated war hero from the nineteen forties is standing in front of me, making coffee at five thirty in the morning. I mean, I read your fucking comics when I was a kid!”

James decided to skirt right past the idea that there were comics about him out there and that this man had growing up reading them. “You seem to be taking it all in stride,” he said instead, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Meh,” the blonde said with a shrug. “I’ve seen weirder.” His eyes flicked down to James’ chest and his eyes crinkled around the edges. “Repping his brand already I see,” he teased. James glanced down, choking at the sight of the little red, white, and blue shield patch sewn just above his left pec. Barton just chuckled, finally lifting his head from his hands. “So, how’d you like the digs? I mean, it gets a bit getting used to but Jarvis is dope and Stark gets a lot less annoying once you realize that…”

The man kept talking but James wasn’t listening anymore. He could do nothing but stare at the strong jawline, the slight crooked tilt to a nose clearly broken more than once. At the gentle lopsided smirk. At the spiky blonde hair. At the bluest eyes James had ever seen, save for one particular night in London, 1943.

“Francis?” he breathed.

The blonde man tilted his head a little, brow furrowing. “Hey, that’s my middle name,” he exclaimed. “How’d’yah know?” James didn’t know what he could possibly say to that. So he did the next best thing.

He ran.

He bolted back the way he came, barely stopping himself from full out sprinting. He couldn’t think beyond anything past that he had to get out of there. He couldn’t handle this. This was too much. After everything he’d been through, this was what might finally break him.

The elevator doors opened just as he reached them and he stumbled inside, catching himself with a hand to the back wall. He was shaking so badly that the only thing keeping him in a semblance of standing was his back against the wall. His breath was stuttering and far too loud in his ears. The walls closed in around him, squeezing the air from his lungs. Voices and memories flickered through his head, echoing painfully.  
  
_“This isn't a back alley, Steve. It’s war!”_

Damn him.

He attributed his survival on the front lines in part to the fact that Steve wasn’t there. He was safe back home and wouldn’t have to see the horror that James witnessed every single day. He wouldn’t be subjected to the nightmares that kept James from a full sleep, wouldn’t have to see close up what an S-mine did to a man’s body.

And then the bastard went and volunteered to be a test tube guinea pig. Had marched up to the front lines with a fucking target on his chest and made it his mission to personally win World War II. And all James had been able to do was to grab onto the man’s shadow and hold on.

_“Sergeant Barnes, the procedure has already started.”_

That man had always and would always give him the creeps, with his beady black eyes as he poked and prodded and questioned. Tinkered and played with James body like it was his personal plaything. He still remembered the gleeful light that would flicker across the man’s face whenever he found a new way to inflict pain in the name of science. To test James to the limit of his endurance.

_“Your work has been a gift to mankind.”_

This one was just another face in a long line of men that had held the other end of his leash. This one only stuck in his memory because he was the first to praise him like that. Treat him like some sort of integral part of a twisted scheme. The confused pride he remembered at the man’s words twisted and burned like acid in his gut, turning ugly and shameful in hindsight.

_“I knew him.”_

He remembered the feeling of the way the man’s hand had cracked across his face. It hadn’t really hurt that much. More like hitting a reset button than a punishment. That in itself was more dehumanizing than anything else he could remember at that moment.

_“Please don’t make me do this.”_

That voice cracked something inside him.

A part of his mind outside the tumbling ringing void of panic he’d fallen into registered the way his knees gave out and he slumped to the elevator floor, knees to chest and hands gripping painfully into his hair.

He remembered that day, would never forget that day. Facing off with the man he know knew he once called brother, suspended thousands of feet up in the air, staring down the blonde man for what felt like an eternity before he tried to kill him.

_“You know me.”_

The man had dislocated the Soldier’s’ shoulder, wrenching the joint out of place with a sharp crack. He’d screamed, the sound surprising himself as it ripped from his throat. He remembered the look of pain in the blonde man’s eyes at the act. He remembered the feeling of his finger squeezing the trigger, saw the way the man jerked and clutched his side because the Soldier never missed.

_“No I don’t!”_

That day, he had slammed his fist into the man’s face again and again, until it was bloodied and bruised and barely recognizable.

Now, in a fancy Tower in the middle of New York, he slammed his fist into the side of the elevator. The metal dented inwards with a harsh shriek.

_“Shut up!”_

But the man hadn’t. He’d just kept talking, pulling out painful memories buried under years of pain and conditioning and ice and pain.

_“I’m with you ’til the end of the line.”_

His breath stuttered and hitched, his fingers tightening in his hair painfully. He needed the pain. He needed the grounding familiarity of it. He’d spent the last seventy years in some sort of pain and he didn’t know who or what he was without it anymore. It was fucked up and he knew that but he didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t know how to fix him.

A soft murmuring wafted past his ears but all he heard was a buzz and he couldn’t pull out individual words. He couldn’t hear anything past the hammering of his heart and the panic that thrummed deep in his chest and made it hard to breath.

_“Easy soldier.”_

A choked sob spilled past his lips because he didn’t want to remember that. It hurt too much to remember that. He didn’t want to remember the bright blue eyes that he’d just seen reflected in the same face of a different man.

Slowly that murmuring sound began to burn through to the forefront of his awareness. It was a voice, low and soothing and a little rough around the edges. It calmed the spiky edges of panic until he had some semblance of control over his breathing and he could actually focus on the words.

“And that’s about the time when Billy Crystal, dressed as like Scrooge or something with super busy eyebrows and an love of mutton, comes out and is all like _‘We’re closed!’_ and Inigo tries to bluff him into helping with a story about…hey, there you are.”

James was staring at the blonde man out between his forearms, hands still clenched in his hair. Franc— _Barton_ was sitting crosslegged a few feet away, a large coffee mug nearby. He was leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands loosely hanging in his lap.

“Welcome back,” he drawled.

James cleared his throat, hating the raspy feeling as he swallowed and hoped that he hadn’t been screaming. He crossed his arms over his knees, wishing he could just disappear or just melt into the walls. Anywhere to get away from the gentle blue gaze that was so different from the way Steve and everyone else looked at him these days. Like he wasn’t a monster.

Like he wasn’t broken.

“How uh, how long was I…,” he trailed off, embarrassed.

“Long enough for me to pour two cups of coffee and make it through about seventy percent of the plot of _The Princess Bride_ ,” the blonde man said teasingly as he reached around beside him and produced a second coffee mug. “I didn’t know if you took anything with it,” he added, nudging it across the floor.

“Black’s fine,” James murmured, reaching a stiff arm across the distance to take the offered caffeine. His hand closed around the ceramic with a clink and James froze.

He’d unthinkingly reached for it with his left hand.

The movement made the sleeve of his hoody ride up, displaying his whole hand in all its metallic horror. His mouth instantly went dry and he waited. Waited for the fear or the judgement or the attack. He could feel Barton’s eyes flick down to it and hold there.

“Badass,” the man said, actually sounding impressed.

A weak chuckle bubbled past James’ lips, surprising himself at the sound. It only made Barton’s grin widen as he took a sip from his own mug, all loose muscles and calm energy. The man was the picture of ease even though he was inhabiting an incredibly enclosed space with a former HYDRA assassin who had just had a panic attack.

Barton didn’t push for conversation and both men sat in silence, slowly burning their way to the bottom of their perspective mugs. Bucky had just swallowed the last dregs of his now lukewarm beverage when Barton produced a thermos from seemingly nowhere and topped him back up again. “Figured we might be here for a while,” he said with a shrug. “I used to end up on the floor for hours afterwards and that would be on a good day.”

James froze, mug inches from his lips, eyes snapping up to the blonde man who just took a sip from his mug like he’d just said _‘I like peanut butter,'_  instead of admitting that he gets, or used to get, panic attacks.

 _Dissociative episodes,_ Sam had called them. And Barton had just admitted to a perfect stranger, so casually and so matter-of-factly, that he’d suffered from them too. A small morbid part of James was insanely curious as to what could have possibly happened to the blonde man but that was definitely something he wasn’t ever going to ask.

“So,” Barton said finally, after another half of the coffee was gone. “I’m guessing what happened in the kitchen wasn’t you just taking a wildly accurate stab at my middle name and then remembering you left the stove on.”

James swallowed down the ice that threatened to crawl up his throat. He licked his lips nervously, looking anywhere but at the blonde man. “You…you look a lot like someone I used to know,” he settled on. There was a quiet pause.

“Well, he must be one handsome devil.”

James swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat, unable to look at that lopsided smirk. “Yeah, he really was,” he murmured, wincing as soon as the words left his mouth because they gave away too much. He cleared his throat, moving to stand and praying his legs would cooperate. “I should…”

“Hey, no, no. All good. I’m gonna stay on this floor anyways,” Barton said, scrambling to his feet with a wince. He was halfway out of the elevator doors when he paused, glancing back down at James without an ounce of pity in those sky blue eyes. “Hey,” the man said, hesitation marring his tone for the first time that night. “Look, I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve been through, but I think I’d understand better than most. So if you ever need someone to talk to, or just need someone to explain the nuances of finding funny dog videos on the internet, my door’s always open.”

And then he was gone, just like that, leaving James reeling as the doors quietly closed. It wasn't until the doors opened onto Steve's floor that he realized the blonde hadn't even mentioned the massive dent in the elevator wall. He hadn't even glanced at it. 

“Hey Jarvis?” he asked hesitantly as he stepped out of the elevator.

“Yes Sergeant Barnes?”

“What…what did he mean when he said he’d understand better than most?”

In leu of a verbal answer, a holo-screen appeared above the kitchen island, glowing a soft blue in the early morning light. James wandered over, setting the mug down with stiff fingers as he stared at the information displayed in mid-air. Personnel files, mission reports, medical files, psych evaluations.

“I don’t think I should be seeing this,” he said softly.

“Agent Barton approved these articles for your consideration,” came the prompt reply. James took a deep breath, poured himself the rest of the coffee, and spent the rest of the morning reading about an alien invasion, an evil trickster god, and learned that maybe he wasn’t so alone as he had thought.

 

  
After three months, James fell into a sort of pattern in the tower. He’d since met the other Avengers, minus the Norse god who wasn’t expected back from wherever Asgard was for another month. Out of everyone, Dr. Banner was the easiest to be around. He man was quiet and unassuming, giving James his space and not pushing him to hold a conversation if he wasn’t up to it.

Romanoff put him on edge, as did Stark but for very different reasons. The former because he couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew her and the look she gave him when others couldn’t see seemed to confirm it. She never tried to explain it and James wasn’t going to be the one to prompt that conversation The latter was because of the hungry spark in his eye whenever he looked at James’ left arm. He knew Stark wasn’t like the other scientists who’d pulled him apart but the idea of the man’s hands on him made his skin crawl.

Steve was always there, just on the tolerable side of smothering. Sam too, made weekly visits to play therapist to James’ broken war vet. As much as James was loath to talk about anything that had happened to him, he had to admit that it did help. Even if it didn’t stop the nightmares, it gave him better techniques to help cope with the aftermath.

And Barton…

Barton was always there, on the edges of everything.

He was in the communal kitchen, cursing over the fancy coffee maker. He was curled up in the middle of the living room with fancy looking arrows splayed out across the coffee table. That was how James found out the blonde man was an archer. He was sprawled out across the couch during movie nights, head or feet pillowed in Romanoff’s lap because he had no sense of personal space.

He learned a lot of things about Barton over the weeks. The man was a mess in the morning until he’d had at least two cups of coffee. He’d grown up in a shitty home before running away to join the actual circus. He had a wicked sense of humour. He baked really good cookies. He never missed a shot, whether it be on a mission or just tossing a pen lid into Steve’s teacup.

They never spoke about what happened in that elevator, or about what James had read in the SHIELD reports. James didn’t how to approach it. He didn't know what to say. The blonde man never seemed to take offence and didn’t push him to talk about anything. Ever. Sometimes they’d just inhabit the same space, often in the middle of the night after whatever nightmares they both had drove them from sleep.

Overall, life in the tower wasn’t terrible. There were bad days, of course, when he would be torn awake by nightmares, throat raw and bloody from screaming. Days when the Russian words rattled around in his head, the panic and pain making him black out and wake up amidst broken furniture and holes in the walls.

On those days, he’d flee Steve’s sad puppy-dog eyes and hole up in his room trying not to shake apart. On those days, he’d find little gifts outside his bedroom door. A thermos of hot coffee, a new blanket so fuzzy to the touch it didn’t seem like it could real, a book about an important piece of history he’d missed.

At first he’d assumed Steve was going it but then a soft grey hoody showed up, with a subtle bow and arrow motif stitched into the cuffs of the sleeves. Barton never fessed up to it but James saw the little smile the man buried in the coffee cup that always seemed to be in his hand when he wore the hoody to movie night.

It would be another month before James had the chance to return the favour.

 

He was once again by himself, curled up on the couch on Steve’s floor with Barton’s latest gift open in his lap. It was fantasy book, a change from the usual history texts. It was about three young wizards fighting some evil. Or something like that. He wasn’t totally sure having only read a couple chapters but he wasn’t hating it.

The Tower was currently pretty empty. Romanoff and Steve were off dealing with some sort of stollen tech, Stark and Banner were at a conference in Prague, and Thor had once again returned to Asgard. Barton was here somewhere but James hadn’t seen him all day, even when he went down to the communal kitchen for coffee because Steve only ever kept tea in his.

“Sergeant Barnes?”

“Yeah, J?” he said with a frown, noting the urgent undertone in the AI’s voice.

“I wouldn’t normally request your assistance in this regard, however seeing as you are the only one in residency, I have no choice but—.”

“What is it, Jarvis?” James interrupted.

“It’s Agent Barton, sir.”

 

He followed Jarvis’ directions down to what looked like a gun range, save for the targets were hardback and the lanes were wider than usual. There was no gate between the shooter and the target, and the walls held racks of not guns, but various types of bows.

Barton was standing in the middle lane, a complicated looking metal bow in hand, firing arrow after arrow down the lane. His eyes flicked over to James the second he entered but didn’t acknowledge him further. He just kept shooting until the quiver was empty.

James walked cautiously further into the lane, seeing the dozens upon dozens of arrows clustered tightly in the bullseye of multiple targets. “Jesus, Barton. How long have you been down here?” A stiff shrug was all the response he got as the shorter man snatched up another full quiver and moved onto the next target. “Jarvis?” he asked softly.

“Five hours, seventeen minutes, twelve seconds.”

“Tattletale,” the archer muttered as he notched another arrow. James took a moment to look the blonde man over. He looked exhausted. Dark circles bruised under his eyes and his shoulders were wound tight with tension and shaking with exhaustion. His hands were also shaking, fingers stiff- and sore-looking. The man wasn’t wearing any sort of wristguard and when he drew, James could see the red-raw skin down the inside of his right forearm.

“Hey, hey,” he said, closing the distance to stand close beside the archer. He waited until Barton had loosed the arrow he had on the string before wrapping a light hand around the bow, careful not to touch the other man in any way. “Maybe that’s enough for today, hmmm?” he murmured gently.

Barton glared at him, hand tightening defensively on the weapon. Then he just let go. James’ muscles tensed, not expecting the weight of the thing but he managed not to drop it. He set the weapon carefully on a nearby table and stepped back to the archer, who still hadn’t moved an inch.

He leaned against one of the lane dividers, patiently waiting for Barton to make the first move. He wasn’t sure how to handle it, how much interference the archer would tolerate. The shorter man shifted uneasily, eyes darting around as he licked his lips nervously. “I don’t…,” he stuttered and then stopped. He flushed, scrubbing his left hand down his grey shirt and leaving behind rusty streaks.

“Here, lemme see,” James said, taking the man’s wrist carefully in his hand. He felt the man flinch back from the touch but he didn’t try to stop James from wrapping his fingers around his wrist. James hissed in sympathy as he turned Barton’s hand over, revealing the shredded fingertips.

“Come on, let’s get this cleaned up.”

James didn’t say anything as they got into the elevator, that used to Jarvis just taking him where he needed to go. So when the doors opened onto a floor with a different floor plan than he was used to, it threw him for a loop. Barton just shuffled past him into the kitchen so James surmised that this must be the archer’s floor. Barton didn’t seem to object and the elevator doors didn’t close so James figured that was his cue to follow.

“Where’s your first aid kit?” he asked, glancing around the room. Big comfy looking couches were tucked in a corner, scattered with books and arrows and the occasional article of clothing. There were dishes in the sink, both clean and dirty, and there were mugs literally everywhere. It wasn’t dirty, just lived in and more cozy than what he’d seen of the rest of the Tower.

“I’m fine,” Barton grunted, pouring water into a sketchy looking coffee maker that looked like it had been stollen from a pay-by-the-hour motel and was so out of place in the fancy kitchen. James just raised his eyebrows. Clint mumbled something about _‘freakin’ Russian assassin eyebrows’_ and waved a hand towards what James assumed was the bathroom.

It took a bit of digging but finally James was heading back to the kitchen with a ridiculously massive first aid kit. He spread it out on the kitchen counter, lightly slapping Barton’s hands away as he tried to reach for the zipper. “Touchy, aren’t we,” the archer grumbled but the tease was half hearted at best.

They didn’t talk as James cleaned the shredded flesh of the first three fingers of Barton’s left hand and bandaged them lightly. He wanted to look at the man’s other arm, at the skin flayed raw by the snapping bowstring, but he was shrugged off.

So he started packing up the kit, watching out of the corner of his eye as the blonde rounded into the kitchen and sat staring at the coffee maker whirring away.

James finished packing away the kit, tossing the scraps into the nearby garbage and then didn’t know what to do. He didn’t feel right about leaving the man when he was clearly not in a good headspace but he didn’t want to intrude. The blonde man solved it for him, taking down two mugs from the overhead cupboard.

He watched as the archer poured the coffee, adding far too much sugar to one of the cups. James noticed his hand was shaking just a little as he stirred the sweetener in. He turned, sliding the mug across the counter without spilling a drop. James wrapped his hands around the mug, feeling the heat only against his right palm, watching Barton take a long pull from his.

“Sorry,” the man muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Tasha’s usually around to deal with me when I get like this.”

“ ’S fine,” James murmured but Barton didn’t seem to take notice. He had this far-away look in his eyes, like he was steeling himself to say or do something. James didn’t rush him, just sat there quietly as his coffee slowly cooled.

“I assume you read my file,” he said finally. James nodded stiffly. He had read the files. He’d read about the way this alien prince had reached into the archer’s mind and played. To obey without question. He’d read about the fallout that had followed.

Barton huffed a breath, lower teeth bitting into his upper lip. “They don’t tell the half of it,” he murmured, nails biting into the porcelain of his mug with a soft scratch.

“You don’t have to—,” James tried but it didn’t seem like Barton was really hearing him.

“I was awake,” he interrupted, setting his coffee mug down with exaggerated care. “I was awake the entire time. I remember everything. It was like I got shoved into the passenger seat of my own body and I couldn’t stop it. I tried, I tried so hard but I couldn’t…I just…I…”

The man’s words tumbling to a jumbled halt as his breath hitched unevenly. The air fluttered from his lips in short bursts, his hands clenching as they ground into the marble countertop. James reached across the distance, resting his flesh hand atop Barton’s fist.

Barton’s gaze snapped up to look James directly in the eye for the first time since they left the range. They looked at each other in silence for what should have felt like an uncomfortable amount of time but James didn’t want to look away. There was something shared between them, a quiet solidarity. It didn’t feel uncomfortable. It just felt safe, like they were the only two people that mattered. And maybe, in this moment, they did.

Barton broke first, pulling away with a self conscious sniff. “Listen to me, complaining about a couple days of brainwashing to the fucking Winter Soldier.” James twitched at the name but that wasn’t the important part of the sentence to focus on.

“It’s not a competition,” he countered.

Barton huffed, a bitter smile tugging at his lips as he clearly struggled to regain his composure. “Yeah, well, you never come down to the range. I gotta take what I can get,” he quipped before hiding himself in his mug of now cold coffee.

“You never ask,” James replied.

Barton froze, eyes flicking back to the dark haired man with his mug comically frozen against his lips. He lowered the mug, swallowing the liquid thickly. “You want me to?” the archer asked him softly.

Now it was James’ turn to swallow. The blonde man’s eyes weren’t giving him an inch. It felt like they were seeing under his very skin, to the core of him. “Maybe,” he breathed.

Something flickered across Barton’s face. If James didn’t know better, he’d say it was want. It was gone in a blink, like it had never been there in the first place. He glanced away, like he was considering something important.

“You have Thai food yet?” the archer asked out of the blue. James shook his head, too thrown by the drastic shift the conversation had taken to reply verbally. “Entirely unacceptable,” Barton said, tossing back the last of his coffee. “Jarvis, order my usual please, times two. No, times four because super serum. Come on, Barnes. I’m gonna introduce you to the wonders that is the modern age. You ever heard of Nyan Cat?”

 

 

  
They became pretty much inseparable after that. It got to the point that they were spending so much time together that even Steve started commenting. But whenever anyone asked, the two men would just shrug as say “Sniper bros,” in perfect tandem just to frustrate them more.

They had shooting competitions, with everything under the sun save for guns. James was still not cleared to handle weaponry of any kind, but that never stopped Clint from smuggling him down to the range with a pocketful of throwing knifes.

James didn’t notice the positive impact the archer was having on his mental state until he caught sight of the look in Steve’s eyes one movie night. It had been after Clint had come up beside him, commenting on his hipster hair as he gave a lock a sharp tug. Instead of tensing or flinching at the unexpected touch, James had just rolled his eyes and flicked his fingers solidly against Clint’s skull. Steve looked like he was going to cry.

That’s when James realized he hadn’t flinched away from the archer’s little touches for a long time. And there were a lot of them. Shoulders bumping together in solidarity when Stark was going on his rants. A hand on his shoulder in passing. Fingers brushing fingers when coffee mugs were passed around. When James had first arrived at the Tower, he couldn’t even stand Steve giving him a hug without feeling like he was going to crawl out of his own skin.

The moment he and Steve were alone, he wrapped the taller man in a huge hug.

He still wouldn’t let Stark near his arm, much to the other man’s disappointment, but that would take some working up to. Sam had since referred him to another therapist, someone who specialized in POWs. Many days after a session he'd come back to Steve’s floor strung out and angry, other times he came back thoughtful and quiet. It was still a roller coaster of emotions, rolling and unpredictable but somehow it felt more stable than the runaway train that they had been when he first arrived. And he owed a lot of that to Barton, who at some point in the last few months had become Clint.

 

 

James stood in the doorway that lead out onto the Tower’s landing pad, nibbling at his thumb nail as he watched the jet touchdown gently. The shock of red hair just visible through the cockpit window was a surprise. He’d only ever seen Clint pilot the team on missions.

Steve was the first one off the jet, clapping an arm around James’ shoulders. “I’m fine,” the bigger man said wearily in reply to James blatantly checking him over for injuries. “It…it was rough one,” he confessed just as a blur of black and dark purple armour strode out of the jet.

James tracked the archer as he strode across the tarmac, not even sparing a glance in their direction. His skin guard and glove were still on but he was missing his bow and quiver. Behind them the rest of the team were slowly filing from the belly of the jet. James’ eyes narrowed in on Clint’s quiver, slung over Romanoff’s shoulder with his bow in her hand. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Steve but the man just shook his head.

 

James hovered on the edge of the group as they all gathered in the common room for post-mission decompression. He watched as they all piled onto the couches, dressed for comfort and nursing their bruises.

All but one.

“Where is he, J?” he asked the air quietly.

“Agent Barton is currently on his floor, Sergeant Barnes.” came the reply. “And…” The AI hesitated, concern laying thick under the artificial words. “I would suggest some haste.”

James didn’t have to be told twice. He silently slipped out of the room, back towards the elevators. If he’d turned around a beat later, he’d have seen the way Romanoff’s gaze snapped over to him, tracking his exit with sharp eyes. He would have heard Steve suggest if someone should check on Clint, and would have heard Romanoff say it was under control.

He stepped out of the elevator into the front room, seeing no sign of the archer in the immediate vicinity. Nothing was out of order since the last time James had been there. He’d been spending more and more time here of late. Clint had seemed to make it his mission to fill him in on all the pop culture he’d missed over the last seventy years.

“Bathroom, sir,” Jarvis promoted quietly.

He found Clint standing in front of the mirror, still in his gear. His breath was coming out in panicked hitching pants, fingers scrabbling at the laces of his skin guard. “Hey,” James said softly, not wanting to startle the archer. It didn’t seem to help. Clint jumped anyways, head whipping around. His hip based against the counter, knocking off a couple bottles of products. His eyes were wide, pupils blown and panicked like a cornered animal.

“Get out,” he growled.

“Come on Barton, you’re shaking so bad you can’t even undo your gear. Let me help,” James sighed, taking a step into the bathroom.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” the archer hissed, flinching away. He stumbled, the bathroom mat slipping under his boots. James lunged forward, wrapping a hand around Clint’s bicep before the man went backwards through the glass shower door.

A hard shove hit him square in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards into the corner of the doorframe. He only had a breath before the archer was lunging at him but man’s technique was sloppy and it was childishly easy to get a grip on Clint’s wrists.

Clint shoved James back against the doorframe, slamming a knee up into his gut. James didn’t even flinch and retaliated by swiping Clint’s legs out from underneath him. The archer went down and then James was on him. They grappled, James earning a sharp elbow to the temple before he finally managed to get the thrashing archer twisted around and pinned against his chest.

“Breathe,” James ordered but the man was beyond hearing him now. He kicked out wildly, trying to get leverage to break the hold on his wrists. So James hooked his legs overtop of Clint’s and squeezed his arms tighter. “Come on, Clint, breathe. Just breath,” he murmured against the shell of the man’s ear.

He kept murmuring soothing words, encouraging the man to breathe as he held Clint through the panic attack. Then, as if a line had been cut, all the fight just drained from the man and Clint slumped bonelessly against James’ chest.

“Lemme go,” the archer sighed, tugging weakly against James’ hold.

“You gonna try and kick me again?” James countered. He still had his cheek pressed into the man’s sweat-soaked hair, so he felt the jerky shake of the man’s head side to side. He slowly let the other man go, who promptly rolled out of his lap and slumped tiredly against the opposite wall.

God, he looked so tired.

A soft whisper of fabric announced Romanoff’s arrival as she stepped through the doorway, a pile of folded clothing in her hands. She took one look at them and grimaced. “Get him out of his gear and into the shower,” she said, tossing the clothes into James’ lap. “Make sure you keep him warm.”

“ _He_ is right here,” Clint grumbled quietly.

“Try and get him to eat something,” she continued like she hadn’t heard him. “If he won’t eat, make sure he drinks plenty of fluids.”

“Still right here and also perfectly capable of taking care of himself,” the blonde man griped but the effect was ruined by the painful level of exhaustion layered under the words. Not to mention that his skin had taken on an ashy pallor, making the circles under his eyes stand out even more.

“But we both know you won’t, _маленькая птица_ ,” she teased, crouching down to brush sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead. She murmured something too quiet for James to hear, to which Clint replied equally as soft. She said something else, pressed her lips against his temple, and then left.

Clint didn’t even spare her exit a glance. He just stared at James, something unreadable in his eyes, before struggling to his feet. “Get out, I need a shower,” he sighed, fingers pulling weakly at the buckles that tracked up the side of his armour.

“You need a hand?” James offered, also getting to his feet. Clint glared at him, a hint of that old fire seeping back into his gaze, but then he huffed and just lifted his arms. James made quick work of the buckles and zippers and straps, helping peel the armour away from tacky skin. He’d have helped with the boots and skin guards but Clint sent him away with a flap of his hand and a snippy comment that was just shy of hurtful. James left, but not because of the barb. It was because of the desperate gleam in his Clint’s eye that told James the blonde man couldn’t handle anymore.

 

  
He put on the kettle, staring as the steam slowly began to tumble from the sprout and snatched it up before it began to shriek. He made himself a tea and settled down to wait.

He didn’t even hear the man emerge from the bathroom. He just turned to find Barton standing the the no-mans-land between the hallway to the bathroom, the living room, and the kitchen. He looked better, still exhausted but more alert than he had before. “Hey,” he said carefully. “Why don’t you go sit down. I’ll make something to eat.”

“Not hungry,” Barton muttered but he didn’t protest further as he shuffled over to the living area. James opened the fridge, grimacing at the contents. There really wasn’t much to work with besides a couple boxes of questionable Chinese takeout but James managed to whip up a stack of passible grilled cheese. He then grabbed a couple bottles of water and headed over to Clint.

The archer was sitting on one of the couches, curled in on himself as he stared out the window. “I said I wasn’t hungry,” he said stiffly, only sparing a quick glance as James put the plate down on the coffee table.

“Who said these were for you?” James retorted as he took a seat next to the archer. He tossed a bottle of water into Clint’s lap before snatching a sandwich for himself. “Hey Jarvis, can you cue up whatever’s next on the list?”

“Of course, Sergeant,” the AI said. The lights dimmed to a pleasant glow, the absurdly massive television blooming into colour. After a moment, the title _The Adventures of Robin Hood_ traced across the screen in glorious technicolour.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Clint grumbled as he picked unconsciously at the label of the water bottle. Under James’ glare, he twisted the cap off and drained half of it. Then, just because he could, he send the lid sailing across the room with a snap, landing it cleanly in James’ abandoned tea mug.

“How the fuck do you do that?” James couldn’t help but say, begrudgingly impressed.

“Just do,” Clint shrugged.

“Badass,” James chuckled, echoing Clint’s own words back at him. The archer’s lips twisted and he snorted sharply.

“Fat lot of good it did me today,” he muttered bitterly. James waited, knowing the archer well enough by now that he’d talk about it when he was ready, or he wouldn’t. No amount of import from him would help either way.

They were about halfway into the movie when Clint spoke up again.

“I fucked up,” he said softly. James turned, giving the archer his full attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Errol Flynn freeze with his lips inches from Maid Marion’s as Jarvis paused the movie without being asked.

“I froze,” Clint continued. “Some sort of fancy weapon detonated. Exploded in this big flash of blue light and I just froze. Almost got Nat killed because I can’t handle my shit. And the worst part,” he paused, licking his lips nervously. “The worst part is that they don’t even blame me. Just kept looking at me like I was something to fuckin’ pity.”

“Do you want them to blame you?” James asked softly.

“It’d be easier, wouldn’t it?” Clint exclaimed with a breathy sort of laugh that was a hair away from sounding manic. “I mean it was my fault. I was the one who fucked up. Let myself become a puppet to some fucking psychopath. Let him use me and—.” Clint’s voice cracked and he bit back the words, throat rolling as he swallowed.

James’ throat constricted. How could they have all missed it? Sure, Clint was a well trained agent and therefore an exceptional liar, but how could every single one of the Avengers have missed how close the archer was to falling apart? How he’d been keeping himself together with duct tape and caffeine for months, for years, and still no one fucking noticed.

“You think maybe they don’t blame you because they know it wasn’t your fault?” James said into the choked silence, feeling like he was quoting his therapist.

“I killed twenty-three people,” Clint breathed.

“I’ve killed hundreds,” James countered.

That caught the archer’s attention. Clint’s head whipped around, glassy bright eyes locking onto his. “But…,” he stuttered, brows crinkling in surprise and disbelief.

“Fifteen targeted assassinations as the Soldier,” he elaborated, knowing the man must have read his file at some point. “But that doesn't account for collateral damage. Innocent bystanders who saw too much. All the people who died when the helicarriers crashed. I did that.”

“But that wasn’t…”

“My fault?” James interrupted with a pointed look, to which Clint just flushed and looked away. “You’re right, it wasn’t,” he continued ruthlessly. “I wasn’t in control because some asshole took that from me.”

A flinch skittered across Clint’s cheek as he continued to pointedly stare at the carpet. James softened his tone, hoping that his final point might finally get through the man’s stubborn head. “And it took me a long time to believe that. Hell, there are still days where I don’t believe it but thankfully I have people around to remind me. And so do you.”

Clint still wasn’t looking at him but James could hear the way his breath was hitching in his chest. “Laying it on pretty thick, Barnes,” he snapped wetly. James didn’t reply, just reached over and placed his hand gently on Clint’s shoulder. He felt the muscles tense and flinch under his touch, but the man didn’t pull away.

The movie began to play again in the background. James didn’t let go until he felt those tense muscles relax under his touch and Clint shrugged away only to snatch up a sandwich.

 

  
James woke horizontal, staring up at the ceiling with a heavy weight sprawled across his chest. He glanced down to the sight of a mess of spiky blonde hair. He didn’t remember falling asleep, just remembered the day turning into a Robin Hood movie marathon that wore on into the night. He’d stretched out to get more comfortable, not really as enthralled in whichever Robin Hood iteration they were currently watching.

And then he’d apparently fallen asleep with an armful of archer.

He regulated his breathing, not wanting to disturb the man who had looked like he needed at least two weeks sleep. He felt Clint twitch and flinch a little, hand tightening reflexively against the couch cushions. Carefully, as gently as he could, James carded his fingers through the archer’s spiky hair. He had splintered memories of his mother doing this when he was little, whenever he was sick or upset.

Instantly, Clint stilled and relaxed bonelessly against James’ chest. Feeling a little bolder, he scratched his nails lightly along Clint’s scalp, eliciting a soft hum of contentment. For two whole minutes, they existed in a bubble. It was as if the whole outside world was at a standstill and all that mattered was this moment.

Then Clint opened his eyes.

James was once again caught by the brilliance of that blue, even red-rimmed and blinking sleepily. “Hey,” he said hoarsely.

“Shit,” Clint muttered. Before James could take the comment too personally, Clint collapsed back against his chest, yawning loudly. “I’m sorry. I know I’m heavy,” he added, voice muffled into James’ shirt.

“You’re light as a feather, doll,” James chuckled, the endearment slipping off his tongue before he could stop it. He felt Clint tense and then push away, supporting his weight on hands planted on either side of James’ torso. The look he gave the former sniper was wary, a guardedness hiding something else beneath.

“I’m not him.”

Those three words struck ice up under James’ ribs. “I know,” he said on reflex. The blonde man just looked at him and James knew it wasn’t enough. He swallowed thickly. To be honest he hadn't thought of Francis is a very long time now. When he looked at Clint, he just saw Clint and not some echo of a ghost from the past. Now he just had to convince the archer of that. Carefully, and slowly enough that Clint would have time to pull away, he reached up and wrapped his right hand around the archer’s forearm.

“I know you aren’t,” he repeated. “And I don’t want you to be.”

Then, with even more care than before, he lifted his left hand. Metallic fingers that had so often been sheathed in blood, that had caused so much pain, were now soft and gentle as they reached to cup Clint’s jaw, silver thumb resting beside his lips.

“I’m not _him_  anymore either,” he breathed.

Clint stared down at him, eyes giving nothing away but a careful blankness. James couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and he’d gotten pretty good at reading the man. Then Clint moved. James thought he was going to pull away but he ended up just shifting his weight to his left hand. Just as gently as James had moved, he reached up to cup his own hand against James’ jaw.

His thumb brushed gently across James’ cheekbone.

James breath hitched, just a little, but it was enough to crack whatever wall Clint had built. A dozen different emotions flickered through his eyes, too many for James to keep track of. He leaned down and then, like James was something precious, gently pressed their lips together.

James held on like he was drowning, like they were the only two people in the world, like he had nothing else to lose. The kiss deepened and it was so perfect. It seemed overly poetic to put so much meaning into a simple kiss. But this was an important kiss.

This was the kiss that brought both of them home.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked! Wrote it on a whim over a couple of days. I blame google translate if the Latin, French, or Russian is incorrect. (Stéphane says a variation of "Till the end of the line", and Nat calls Clint "Little Bird")
> 
> HISTORY FUN FACT: The pirate one is the only one that doesn't take place in factual history, however I did loosely base it around a real pirate, Howell Davis, who raided a fort in Gambia by befriending the commander. Also, bonus points for two Steve cameos and for Coulson being a pirate captain?
> 
> Feedback is my fairy dust! Hope you enjoyed the read. It's my first time writing this particular couple.


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